


Catch and Release

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Fellatio, Light BDSM, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2548775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey developed a different kind of relationship during the three years of the chase before Neal's ultimate arrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch and Release

 

         Neal was coming apart under Peter’s hands. Handcuffed to the brass headboard, the young man writhed, moaned and pulled futilely at his restraints. As always, Peter knew exactly what Neal wanted—what he needed—but was drawing it out with a perverse pleasure that was all part of the game. Peter used his teeth to bite and tease, his tongue to titillate and torture, and his hands to delve into the depths that were hot to his touch. Neal’s pupils were completely blown; sweat beaded on his upper lip and plastered his bangs to his forehead in a messy heap. His panting was desperate and sounded like a kind of pleading to Peter’s ears.

        When Peter was almost beyond his own endurance, he shoved savagely into this beautiful, wanton creature splayed out beneath him, and Neal’s gasp became a soft keening that fed Peter’s desire even more. The coupling was primal, both men far, far beyond aware comprehension. Peter rutted and Neal rose up to meet him in perfect rhythm. Time ceased to exist for them until a guttural shout abruptly ended the dance, with the con man coming in explosive spurts that splashed across his chest and abdomen.

         Peter always managed to hold off his own climax until he had taken Neal over the precipice. He first wanted to experience the hot spasms around his cock, and then feel Neal stutter-step beneath him. It heightened his own erotic pleasure to a crescendo. Three strokes after that, his own orgasm overwhelmed him as well. Afterward, he collapsed upon the slighter man under him, drinking in the sharp essence of semen and the earthy smell of Neal’s sweat.

         With an effort, he finally raised himself up and removed the condom. Then he carefully unlocked the handcuffs from Neal’s wrists. There were angry red welts where the metal had bitten into the skin, and Peter delicately licked them with the tip of his tongue. The young man lay in boneless oblivion, even when Peter pressed soft, butterfly kisses to his lips and that sensitive area below his ear. Peter wordlessly congratulated himself. Not too shabby for a man squarely in middle age, but then Neal was like an alluring siren who inspired and pushed Peter to unbelievable heights of endurance.

          Slouching back upon a pillow that softened the hardness of the metal headboard at his back, Peter pulled Neal across his chest. With his head now positioned over Peter’s heart, Neal was lulled into a satiated stupor as he listened to the soft, hypnotic cadence. Gentle stroking across his lower back detected no tension, just relaxed musculature. It seemed that Neal was worn out and content, so Peter knew from experience that he would sleep for at least an hour, if not longer. Then they would make love again, but it would be softer and sweeter without the frantic combustible lust of that first time.

           In the early shadows of dusk, Peter now had time to study his surroundings. Upon inspection, Peter granted that this was quite different from their usual venue. It appeared to be an artist’s garret of a sort, in probably what was a 300-year-old building on the Rue De Saint-Denis in Montmartre. There was an easel set up in the room with a partially completed picture of a ballerina—Degas, no doubt. Peter knew instinctively that this was not for Neal’s wall as adornment, but rather as an accoutrement for the art collection of some unsuspecting mark. He sighed. This was Paris, so it was not his problem. He was out of the FBI’s jurisdiction, just as he was every time that he and Neal had their trysts. Well, except for that first time—but Peter justified that because he hadn’t known all the facts at the time.

           Almost three years ago, he was following up on a tip about a new confidence man/forger on the scene. The tales that were being circulated were obviously greatly magnified each time that they were told because no one could be that good and stay off the Bureau’s radar for very long. However, when he got to New Orleans and looked at the newcomer’s work, it really was that good. In fact, it was exceptional and Peter was duly impressed. There were no leads that he could follow, simply work that had been left behind when the artisan somehow glommed onto the fact that the FBI had been called in. Peter collected what evidence that he could, but had to admit that he was stymied. It was time to head back to New York.

            He found, once he made it to the airport, that his flight, like so many others, had been delayed indefinitely. A tropical storm was in the Gulf and pounding New Orleans as well as parts of Mississippi and Alabama. Peter sat in the airport lounge awaiting a definitive “yea” or “nay” regarding his outgoing flight. It didn’t take long for him to notice the young, extremely handsome kid sitting at a nearby table. After getting his scotch from the bar, Peter asked if he could join the fellow solo traveler.

            Peter introduced himself. The young man looked up at him with startling Caribbean blue eyes set in a beautiful face of chiseled planes and high cheekbones. “Ned Connelly,” the striking youth said in return as he held out his hand for the obligatory male bonding ritual. They both bemoaned the fact that they could possibly be stranded indefinitely because of the fickleness of the weather.

            After the second drink, Peter told Ned a bit about himself and his job as an FBI agent in the White Collar division in New York. The guy was really easy to talk to and an avid listener. Peter even went so far as to tell him tidbits about his current case here in the “Big Easy.” It wasn’t until much later that Peter realized how reticent Ned had been regarding his own background. He offered sparse, bare bones information, but enough that Peter became aware that he called New York City home, and supposedly had been in New Orleans visiting his younger brother who was a student at Tulane University.

          After a while, with almost certain inevitability, the overhead board suddenly flashed the dire alert that the airport was shutting down due to the inclement weather. After Hurricane Katrina and its devastation of the city, officials were taking no chances. Both men found their way to the hotel connected to the airport. Rooms were now at a premium as stranded travelers were scrambling for accommodations. There was but one room still available. “We can flip for it,” Peter suggested.

          “Peter, it has two double beds. We can share if you’d like,” Ned offered.

          So, that is how two weary travelers found themselves together within the confines of one room. After flopping their overnight bags onto the two beds, Ned opted to take a shower. Peter sat at the small desk and composed an email to his boss at the Bureau making him aware of the delay in his return. In time, Peter noticed that the noise of the shower cascade had ceased, and suddenly the door to the bathroom opened and Ned stepped out looking slightly ethereal in the humidified mist surrounding him. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, but the body that Peter could see was lean, lithe and exquisitely sculpted. He was as beautiful to feast your eyes on as any statue by Michelangelo. And he looked very, very young! Nonetheless, Peter found that his body was responding to this glorious spectacle, and his erection was clearly evident within his trousers.

          Ned’s eyes took in Peter’s obvious arousal, and stepped into Peter’s personal space as the FBI agent rose. Tentatively, the young man pulled Peter’s lips to his and gently explored his mouth, erotically sliding his tongue over the older man’s. Peter responded in kind, and pulled the towel away to reveal someone as turned on as he was. The exploration became more intense and sensual, as Peter found himself teetering on the brink of losing control. Finally, he managed one coherent thought.

          “Are you even legal, kid?” he managed to rasp out in a voice that definitely didn’t seem like his own.

          “I’m twenty-three, Peter, and old enough to know what I want.” Was the answer that he got.

          After that was out of the way, Peter roughly pulled the kid to the small table where he had been composing emails just a few moments ago, and bent him over abruptly. Peter unzipped his slacks to free his demanding dick, and without any reasonable thought pushed into Ned’s very tight ass up to his balls. Ned let out a yelp, and Peter froze.

          “Sorry, sorry! I should have taken this slower; I should have prepared you before I ripped into you.” Peter had never before been so caught up in the moment that he actually hurt someone.

          Ned was panting hard, still spectacularly aroused to the point that his penis stood upright and rigid against his abdomen. “It’s okay, Peter. Just fuck me, please. Fuck me hard!”

          So, Peter threw caution to the wind and did just that until both men found their release. Twice more they pleasured each other a bit less wildly, gently teasing each other’s dicks with flicks of their tongues and avid sucking. Peter tried to get Ned to sit astride him, but apparently, the kid didn’t like taking the reins. With much coaxing, he eventually agreed to mount Peter, but immediately dropped down upon Peter’s chest. The older man then bent his knees and began to push rhythmically in and out of a more relaxed orifice while smothering Ned’s moans with wet, sloppy kisses.

          This twenty-four hour interlude seemed otherworldly to Peter, like he was standing outside of himself looking on to what was happening to someone else. But Ned was real—he was solid, toned muscles, tousled brown curls and a smiling face, and Peter wondered how this quirk of Fate had so graciously favored him. Nevertheless, everything must come to an end; the next day they were informed that the airport was once again open. With a soft smile, Ned apprised Peter at the terminal that he had changed his New York bound ticket for one going to San Francisco. “Family matter,” was all that he admitted to Peter.

          So the FBI agent returned home to the Bureau with fond memories that still caused him to get hard while in his bed at night. Meanwhile, he continued probing the perplexing case of the new forger. Eventually, with the help of Interpol and various police groups in Europe, a profile emerged. At first, the criminal was simply given the handle of “James Bonds,” but eventually this aggravating nemesis acquired a face and a name from some diligent work abroad. Peter just stared at the 8x10 glossy as if in a trance. What he had considered the benevolence of Fate had now crossed into the karmic realm. You get what you deserve, he admitted. He had been screwed in so many ways!

          Peter now threw himself into the pursuit. He told himself that no one would believe Caffrey if he were caught and tried to parlay his freedom by spinning some outlandish tale about a night of sexual depravity in a New Orleans hotel with the man who was chasing him. However, he always seemed to stay one step ahead of everyone; his exploits were daring and masterful. Even Peter couldn’t figure how he had managed to pull off some of the more spectacular ones.

          Caffrey was now on the FBI’s Most Wanted list of felons. For the time being, the fugitive seemed to content himself with kicking around Europe, but Interpol could never seem to plot a trajectory of where he would land next. The local Carabinierie, Gendarmes, and Bundespolizei were impotent in their attempts to corner him. It was damned frustrating!

          One spring morning, Peter arrived at the Bureau and lazily combed through the mail in his inbox. A vivid postcard displaying the Trevi Fountain in Rome caught his eye. When he turned it over, the simple block letters said, “Missing you.” Peter knew immediately who had sent this; he just didn’t know the why. Was Neal taunting him, or did he really crave a connection? Perhaps he was tired of being on the run and wanted to surrender to the one person with whom he had a history. Or maybe he had an agenda that included blackmail.

          Peter mulled over this latest development for almost a week. He couldn’t imagine that Caffrey had damning pictures, or had installed a hidden camera in their hotel room. There hadn’t been time to set that in place. Their initial meeting was by chance, and they took the last available room at the hotel. But Peter had to know why this criminal was contacting him. Finally, he succumbed to the temptation. Taking a week of his vacation time, he booked a flight to Rome. He told no one where he was going or why. He had to get the lay of the land first; he had to know exactly what he was dealing with in this scenario.

          Coming straight from the airport with only the postcard as a clue, he had a cab drop him off at the famous Roman landmark. Peter, ever vigilant, cautiously circled the impressive baroque fountain twice before he spotted Caffrey sitting at an outside café under an awning, expresso in hand. Peter approached him slowly and tilted his head.

          “How long have you been waiting, Caffrey?”

          “Long enough to know that you’re here alone and that the Carabinierie haven’t surrounded the piazza,” Caffrey answered with a smile.

          Peter warily sat down at the small table across from his quarry. “Well, Ned, or do you prefer “Neal,” have you decided to surrender yourself into my custody?”

          “Peter, Peter, you know that the FBI has no jurisdiction here in Rome,” the handsome young man said with a smile.

          “Then what’s your intent, Caffrey? What game are you playing, and what are the stakes? If you think that you can blackmail me, that is definitely a place that you do not want to visit,” Peter said emphatically.

          Neal managed to look hurt, with a wide-eyed naïve expression. “I just wanted to see you again, Peter. Is that so hard to understand? I promise that I have no plots or tricks up my sleeve. You came all this way without any backup, so is it possible that you wanted to see me, too?” The last sentence was uttered in a hopeful tone.

          “You know that you’re batshit crazy, kid,” Peter shook his head in amazement.

          “Probably,” Neal agreed with a smile. “I have a room in the city……” he trailed off at Peter’s menacing look.

          “Okay,” Neal backpedaled. “We can go to whatever room you have, even if it has to be another god-forsaken airport hovel.”

          Peter knew that he should not be taken in by the open guileless look on Neal’s face. Confidence men perfected that look. However, his self-preservation instinct took a backseat to his want. He allowed Caffrey to lead him to a spectacular room at the world-renowned Hassler Hotel overlooking the famous Spanish Steps. It was the height of Old World charm and decadence, and it fit Caffrey to a “T.” Their initial coupling was just like the first time in New Orleans—brutal and swift, with Neal bent over the high, oak-carved bed with 1000 thread-count linens. Afterwards, they leisurely soaped each other with languid strokes in a magnificent marble shower that culminated in Neal sinking to his knees and sucking Peter off like a starving man, swallowing every drop.

          When they managed to extricate themselves from the sheets the next morning, Neal insisted on showing Peter the sights of the Eternal City. There seemed to be history everywhere manifested in crumbling ruins as well as beautiful statues, fountains and graceful architecture. After a robust lunch of pasta, they toured the Vatican and experienced the surreal presence of the Sistine Chapel. Peter wasn’t sure which was more fascinating—looking at the magnificent Michelangelo ceiling, or watching Neal stare at it. The young forger seemed mesmerized and lost in his own world, until Peter had to pull him away when their allotted time of the tour had expired.

          As they returned at a leisurely stroll to their hotel, Peter remarked, “Lots of temptation for an art thief,” referring to the myriad of masterpieces in the Vatican.

          Neal actually looked perplexed for a moment before he responded with a frown, “That would be a true sacrilege, Peter. Some things need to be where they have always been.”

          Another glorious night ensued after a sumptuous dinner at a nearby trattoria, followed by gelato at the foot of the Spanish Steps. Neal was a willing participant in anything that Peter wanted to do in bed. Although the sex was rough at times, Peter was careful not to cause injury to this enigma of a criminal. He enjoyed stroking and caressing the young man’s body as much as pummeling into him at the height of his passion. Each time that they sank into the warm, thick comforter on the bed, it was if the outside world no longer existed. But on the third morning, Peter awoke alone, and he knew that Neal most likely had left the city.

          Several months passed until another postcard found its way into his home mail slot. It was a breathtaking view of the caldera of Santorini, Greece and the strikingly beautiful lagoon that some claimed is where the ancient civilization of Atlantis sank into oblivion millenniums ago. There was no need for a message this time, and Peter wasted no time taking personal time from the FBI. He simply told his boss that there were sightings of Caffrey in Greece, and he wanted to liaison with his counterparts in Interpol to see the evidence for himself.

          Instead, his liaison was with Neal only, stretched atop a sumptuous bed on an open-air terrace overlooking the very blue Aegean Sea. They lay entwined like yin and yang, simultaneously licking and sucking each other to the edge of climax. Neal’s expertise at fellatio was light years beyond Peter’s, but the FBI agent compensated for his lack of finesse by working his talented fingers deep within Neal and massaging his prostate as he sucked on his penis. He stopped the young man’s orgasm time and again by applying a tight hold at the base of the shaft, making him moan, writhe, and beg to come. Peter stretched out the torture until he, himself, could hold out no longer.

          Afterwards, he tied Neal to the bed with silk scarves and massaged every inch of his body with a fragrant oil until his penis quivered at attention once more. Tantalizingly slow, he worked Neal until he came again in white rivulets of semen. Peter felt such a sense of power and dominance as he loomed over the compliant young man who seemed to relish his subservient role. Theirs was a complicated relationship that even Peter didn’t fully comprehend.

          In the light of day, they hiked the steep slopes of the island to the top of the mountains. In the pure, crisp air, they browsed the gaily-decorated open-air stalls that hawked gold bangles and trinkets. They drank ouzo and ate goat cheese late into the night. On the third day, Neal was gone.

          Four months later, their lust accompanied the sound of clicking castanets at a nearby cantina on the Costa del Sol in Spain. Sated and blissful in each other’s company, they walked along the beach promenade in the early morning as the fishermen unloaded their catch. They shared Spanish wine and paella late into the night. Peter never heard Neal leave the third morning.

          It was a very long six months before Peter heard from Neal again. He had begun to worry that the impulsive criminal, with seemingly no sense of self-preservation, was imprisoned in some foreign hellhole, or dead at the hands of a nefarious competitor. There simply was no code of honor among thieves, no matter what the old adage said.

          Then the long-awaited omen arrived—a picture of the statue of “St. George and the Dragon” in a Cathedral in Stockholm, Sweden. Peter didn’t know if he wanted to strangle the young man or kiss the breath from his lungs once they finally rendezvoused in front of that statue. In a bedroom apartment in Old Town Stockholm, he tied Neal to the bed and worked a dildo into his ass for hours as punishment before taking him brutally from behind.

          “You had me worried out of my mind, you little idiot! I pictured you dead every night before I closed my eyes,” Peter reluctantly admitted as he caressed Neal afterwards.

          Neal just smiled and nestled deeper into Peter’s neck. The next afternoon he took Peter to the famous “Absolut Ice Bar,” kept at a constant temperature of 23 degrees Fahrenheit year-round. They drank libations from glasses made of ice while wearing fur-lined gloves and parkas. In a tourist shop, Neal bought Peter a replica of a Viking hat complete with horns. Knowing that Neal would simply disappear again, Peter held him close that last night, planting soft, loving kisses to his temple. “Don’t ever let anything happen to yourself,” he whispered to his semi-awake partner. “It would probably kill me, too,” he admitted. He didn’t get a response, and then Neal was gone once more.

          Now here they were, just four months later in this very apartment in Paris. Peter reflected on their previous sexual behavior this evening. In some of his times of deep introspection, he wondered at Neal’s desperate need to be dominated and hurt. And what did that say about himself—the person who was inflicting the hurt? Theirs was a complex relationship to be sure—one that Peter was really afraid to explore in depth, just as he was hesitant to probe into Neal’s psyche. However, he couldn’t help ponder Neal’s needs. His darker side wondered if the young man had been sexually abused as a child, and this was his way of dealing with his past. Regardless, Peter would never probe; he would never confront or question. Neal was Neal, and in a convoluted way, Peter loved him, kinks and all. Recently, he had finally admitted the truth to himself—yes, he “loved” this quirky, needy, beautiful mélange of id and ego, and worried incessantly about him.

          Later, when Neal started to rouse from his sexually-sated nap, Peter kissed him gently on the forehead while he still lay across the agent’s chest. Without preamble, Peter blurted out, “Come back to New York with me, Neal.”

          The young man’s forehead creased as he glanced up at Peter. “Why would I do that, Peter? Right now the world is my oyster.”

          “But not for much longer, Neal. The evidence is mounting up and the FBI is closing in,” Peter warned.

          “Peter, that’s redundant, ‘cause you’re FBI, and right now you’re as close to me as you can possibly get without actually being inside of me.”

          After a pause, Neal continued, “Are you contemplating arresting me? I suppose that my capture would be an impressive feather in your cap and give your career a tremendous boost.” He sounded a bit hurt as he murmured those words.

          Peter suddenly flipped Neal onto his back and loomed over him. “Neal, regardless of what you may think, you are not invincible! The capers that you pull are outrageously dangerous, just as the other criminals are that you hobnob with from time to time. Sometimes I can’t sleep at night imagining you missing a landing and falling to your death, or being shot by some local constable on his beat who just happens to be in the right place at the right time. Then there are the dark, dirty images of prisons in Third World countries where your jailors would relish the delights of torturing you or ripping into you just for kicks.” Peter was speaking quietly but forcefully.

          Neal, trying to stem the ominous tirade, said cynically, “Gee, Peter, it seems like your nights away from me are spent dreaming up a smorgasbord of dire ends to my very existence. Do you subconsciously want to get rid of me?”

          Peter simply ignored Neal as he continued.

          “Neal, I know for a fact that the only evidence that we have right now that will stand up in court is the Atlantic bond forgery. It will get you a few years from a lenient judge, since it will be your first offense. I’ll put a word in the right ear and get you housed in a single-cell environment, and put protection money in play so that nobody bothers you. After you do a bit of time, I’ll finesse a deal to get you early parole under my supervision. You can work as my confidential informant. In principle, I’ll own you until your sentence is complete. Until then, I’d have a leash attached to your leg. I’ll bet that you’d definitely like that!”

          With a confidence man’s innate sense of being able to read people and discern their true motives, Neal suddenly realized just how much Peter cared about him. What had started out as an ironic lark in New Orleans had morphed into a whole other animal, and it was damned confusing. Right now, Neal didn’t know if he was even capable of love, or could differentiate it from lust. He had been called a sociopath at various points in his life, and perhaps he had bought into that hype and had begun to believe that he could never feel true, honest feelings for anyone other than himself.

          All at once, Neal experienced a sensation that had always been foreign to him. Pangs of fear rose unbidden and made him shiver. He was suddenly scared that he was in uncharted territory, like being sucked down by quicksand. Peter’s feelings of affection terrified him so much because he knew, suddenly and unequivocally, that he returned them in kind. He had to get his mask firmly back in place before he did something stupid.

          The shaken young man resorted to the comfort of misdirection, wrapping his legs around Peter’s body, pulling his head down and planting a chaste kiss on his lips. Then he nestled his head against the FBI agent’s, and murmured softly in his ear, “Maybe one day I’ll let you catch me and keep me.”

 


End file.
